Lady Margaret sat primly in her drawing room, delicately dabbing a lace handkerchief at the bandage on her wrist. “One must maintain appearances, even in times of strife,” she remarked to her companion, Miss Eleanor Blackwood.
“Indeed,” Eleanor replied with a slight smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Though I dare say some wounds run deeper than mere scratches requiring bandages.”
The year was 1943, and beneath the veneer of their genteel afternoon tea lay a web of secrets that would make Jane Austen’s heroines blush. Lady Margaret was Britain’s most skilled operative, her bandaged wrist concealing a microfilm vital to the war effort. Eleanor, her supposed confidante, served a different master altogether.
“How dreadful about poor Mr. Harrison’s accident,” Margaret commented, arranging her skirts. “Such a promising young diplomat.”
“Yes, quite tragic. Though one wonders what truly happened that night at the embassy.” Eleanor’s words carried hidden barbs.
“One always wonders, doesn’t one?” Margaret’s tone remained light, though her green eyes hardened imperceptibly. “Rather like wondering why you’ve taken such an interest in my injured wrist.”
“Mere concern for a dear friend,” Eleanor demurred, reaching for her tea cup. “Though it’s curious how many injuries you’ve sustained lately during your charitable hospital work.”
The drawing room’s elegant atmosphere crackled with unspoken tension. Both women maintained perfect postures and pleasant expressions, while mentally calculating moves and countermoves like master chess players.
“Speaking of charity,” Margaret segued smoothly, “I heard the most fascinating rumor about your evening gatherings. So many distinguished guests from… various nations.”
Eleanor’s smile tightened. “One must maintain an open mind about international relations, particularly in these trying times.”
“Oh, I couldn’t agree more.” Margaret gestured to the bandage. “These wounds we all carry - some visible, some hidden - they’re rather universal, aren’t they? Rather like humanity’s shared frailties.”
“Universal bandages for universal wounds,” Eleanor mused. “Though some prefer to hide their true allegiances beneath layers of gauze and propriety.”
The grandfather clock struck four, its chimes echoing through the tension. Margaret rose gracefully. “I’m afraid I must cut our lovely chat short. The hospital awaits.”
“Of course.” Eleanor stood as well. “Though do be careful - it would be tragic if anything were to… compromise your humanitarian work.”
Their parting embrace was picture perfect, each woman scanning the other for weapons while maintaining spotless social graces. As Eleanor departed, Margaret touched her bandaged wrist thoughtfully. By morning, either the microfilm would be safely delivered to Allied commanders, or she would be dead - with impeccable manners, naturally.
The next day’s society papers noted that both women had relocated abroad quite suddenly - Lady Margaret to Cairo, Miss Blackwood to Argentina. Their afternoon tea set remained perfectly arranged, two cups still half-full, eternal witnesses to a battle fought not with guns but with razor-sharp words and deadly courtesy.
Some say on quiet evenings, one can still hear the gentle clink of fine china in that drawing room, where two masters of deception once faced off in a deadly game masked by bandages and social niceties.